


Dickie Bird Spotting and The Drag of Growing Old (But Definitely Not Up)

by hidden_snitch_in_an_alcove



Series: Better Camelate Than Never [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: (reposted), Arthur Pendragon Returns (Merlin), Baking, Chickens, Cooking, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Day 2: Knights in Shining Armour, Destiny & Chicken, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Food, Gwaine in an apron, Immortal Gwaine, Immortal Leon (Merlin), Immortal Merlin, Knives, Magic Strength & Courage, Merlin's Knitting Circle, Modern Era, Multi, Post-Canon, The Moustachekateers, custard, immortal george, or. well. Steaming, overuse of the word 'dick', puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 11:21:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30021018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hidden_snitch_in_an_alcove/pseuds/hidden_snitch_in_an_alcove
Summary: A day in the life of Magic, Strength, and Courage, involving pudding, poultry, barely-passable birthday presents and general dicking about.
Relationships: George/Leon (Merlin) - mentioned, Gwaine/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Gwaine/Merlin (Merlin), Gwaine/Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Better Camelate Than Never [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2209551
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18
Collections: Camelove 2021





	Dickie Bird Spotting and The Drag of Growing Old (But Definitely Not Up)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eat_sleep_manatee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eat_sleep_manatee/gifts).



> Set in a Universe where Gwaine is Immortal, Arthur has finally risen, Merlin is Done™ and the three of them live happily forever after in the countryside, Merlin attends a knitting group as the Dolma, where he meets an elderly self-proclaimed simp who is turning another year older.  
> Trigger warning for use of blades at the start. Gwaine is shaving and no one gets hurt, but just in case. 
> 
> (I did actually post this about a week ago, deleted it, but am posting it again, in no small part due to the encouragement of dear friends.) 
> 
> Kristen. I will forever cherish the post we met, where Seer!Gwaine turned to a moustachioed band of immortals and dispute about the deliciousness of apples turned into a friendship and a two-quarter-braincell-half of a fest. 
> 
> Lots of love 💛

Gwaine pouts exaggeratedly in his reflection, tilting his head to the side for better access to his jaw. He takes a couple of pumps of shaving foam in his hand and slathers it liberally across his cheek, carelessly wipes his hand on a towel and whips up his blade. 

He breathes in. He breathes out. 

Slowly - _ever_ so carefully - he lifts the glinting tool to his face, pressing the sharp edge against his foamy skin-

_SLAM_

“I’m back!” 

Gwaine yelps, fumbling with his knife. It drops into the sink with a clatter. 

Peeved, he turns towards the door and glares daggers at the intruder. Merlin stares back, paused halfway over the threshold, like a candid photograph taken minutes before disaster. 

Or, Gwaine thinks as he lifts a hand to his face, seconds after it. His glare screws to an expression of pure devastation as he turns to check his reflection, because - yep - half of his moustache has been sliced clean off. 

“What the fuck, Merlin?” he whines. “How the fuck d’you still not know how to knock?” 

“Wh- bu-” Merlin sputters, “What the fuck right back at you?!”

Gwaine scowls at him. 

“It literally kills a part of my soul to agree with the Princess,” he grumbles, “but I _know_ he used to get on your arse about that. Knocking. Fuckin’ courtesy. A lesson you haven’t learned by now, apparently.” He turns back to his reflection with a shake of his head. “It’s fuckin’ impolite, Merlin.” 

“This is the front fucking door!” Gwaine hears the sound of the key jangling angrily as it impacts with the bowl beside what Merlin is, admittedly, correct in calling the front door. “‘The fuck are you doing, anyway?” 

“Well, I was trying to shave,” he drawls, laying derision on as thick as the very obvious shaving foam plastered on his face, and he can practically _hear_ Merlin rolling his eyes. He turns, and mentally pats himself on the back as Merlin’s pupils make the final anticlockwise stretch from twelve o’clock to three before centring again. 

“I meant, _obviously_ , why are you shaving in the kitchen?” 

Gwaine shrugs. “The lighting’s better in here.” 

Merlin raises a Gaius-esque brow - and isn’t that cute, that he takes after his not-quite-dad? Gaius would be proud, Avalon rest his wrinkly arse - and trudges over, lugging over his six shopping bags in white-knuckled fists. Gwaine, still pissed about his new asymmetry, pointedly does not offer to help. Merlin stops a couple of feet away, dumps the bags heavily on the island, and peers into the sink. His expression turns to outrage. 

“Is that my _cheese knife_?! ” 

“What can I say?” Gwaine says airily. “It gives a close shave.” 

“It’s for _cheese!_ ” 

“Don’t let it get yer _goat cheese_ , Merls, I’ll give it a _gouda_ clean before I put it back.” 

“This is _not_ the time for stupid pu- _why is there is shaving cream on my tea towel_ -”

“Oh, come on. It’s the same colour! You literally can’t see it.” To prove his point, Gwaine takes the tea towel off the rack and wipes the remaining foam from his face with it. A sorry waste, but the mood for shaving has been effectively killed by the death of his handlebar, so he may as well pack up shop. 

Merlin squawks, then rips the towel from Gwaine’s hands, balls it up and shoves it into the washing machine. As the concave door slams closed, Gwaine crosses his arms across his chest, raising a Gaius-esque brow of his own. Because two can play at that absent-father-replaced-by-snarky-gp-geezer game. 

“That,” he says, “was rude.” 

Merlin glowers, snatches the cheese knife from the sink and points it at Gwaine’s neck. Gwaine, despite himself, is a little turned on. He resists the urge to gulp.

“You,” Merlin growls (and _shit_ , but that goes straight to Gwaine’s groin), “are going to clean your hair from my sink, and then you are going to _come back here_ and bake a fucking cake with me.” 

Neither of those things are very sexy, the first being gross - tragic, because it’s the remains of Gwaine’s lovingly-nurtured facial hair, but undoubtedly gross - and the second being a CBeebies sort of adorably domestic, but there’s a cheesed-off ( _ha_ ) glint in Merlin’s eyes that sears straight through Gwaine’s own and makes him sizzle like a Welsh rarebit under the grill. 

...He’s struggling to work out if the cheese talk is making him horny or hungry. 

...Not that those are mutually exclusive. 

“What d’you want a cake for?” he asks instead of addressing his horngriness, because he honestly doesn’t doubt that the knife will end up _in_ his throat if he propositions Merlin after getting white gunk all over his towels. 

Merlin narrows his eyes, then pulls away the knife much to Gwaine’s relief (and mild disappointment) and throws it in the dishwasher. 

“I need to bake something for a friend from the club,” he mutters. “It’s her birthday today.” 

“You mean your knitting circle?” 

“Yes, I mean my knitting circle.” 

“Why don’t you just - I dunno - _knit_ her somethin’?”

Merlin glares. 

“Do you know how long knitting takes?” he snaps. “Besides, last time I knit something you thought it was a pair of knickers.” 

Gwaine blinks. 

“Are you talking about those fuzzy yellow ones?” I.e. the ones he was wearing right that very moment? “Are you saying they _aren’t_ knickers?” 

“Fuck off, it was clearly a tea cosy.”

“...It had leg holes.” 

“Those are for the _handle and spout!_ ” 

“...Huh.” 

Merlin crosses his arms across his chest. “Get your moustache out of my drain.”

Gwaine does, cradling the perfectly coiffed half of his prized facial hair mournfully before making the funeral march down to the bathroom so he can clog the drain with it there out of spite. 

He emerges shortly after, skin manatee-smooth (while he doesn’t doubt that he could pull off the half-handlebar look, he’d rather start from scratch), to find Merlin unpacking the shopping onto the island counter. He whistles lowly. 

“Waitrose, huh?” he quips. “Did the recipe ask for fifteen-percent twenty-four carat gold dust quinoa flour or somethin’?” 

“No,” Merlin says, pulling out _Waitrose Dutchy Stoneground Wholemeal Flour_ , which, honestly, isn’t far off from what Gwaine had suggested. “But I was at Waitrose anyway because nowhere else sells the brand of mayonnaise I like.” 

Merlin pulls more items from the bags, fingers sparking and eyes flashing gold each time before he chucks the products nonchalantly over his shoulder. Gwaine watches as the cupboards, drawers and fridge-freezer opens to admit the items that bob merrily towards them like chicks seeking warmth under a mother bird’s wing after a day out flying. As always when Merlin shows such casual displays of his raw power, even in the most mundane of settings, Gwaine finds his knees going a bit weak. The _Waitrose Coarse Crystal Sea Salt_ that whacks him in the side of the head effectively dampens the heat pooling in his belly, however, and one glance at Merlin’s smirking profile proves that it hadn’t been accidental. 

When all the items are away, bar a few that Gwaine assumes are for the dessert, laid out next to a large recipe book, Merlin grabs a set of electric scales from the cupboard and busies himself with weighing the probably-ran-his-wallet-dry dry ingredients out into a bowl. Gwaine observes silently (a blessing, as Merlin would put it), until Merlin bends over (a blessing, as Gwaine would), rummages around in a lower cupboard for a few seconds and pops up with a jar of- 

“Are those _raisins?_ ” 

“Currants,” Merlin corrects, already pouring them in with the other ingredients, to Gwaine’s absolute disgust. 

“I knew you had a sadistic streak, Merlin, but this is going too far.” 

“I’m making it for an old lady,” Merlin huffs, scrutinising the digital numbers with narrowed eyes. (Gwaine sort of hopes he gets glasses. For health reasons, obviously, not because he thinks Merlin would look hot in them.) “Old ladies love this kind of fruity stodge.” 

(Oh, the narcissism of old age.)

“Who is this old bird, anyway?” 

“Uh-” Merlin picks a few currants from the bowl and puts them back in the jar. He stares at the scales, then takes a couple of currants from the jar again and returns them to the bowl. “-I’ve told you about Kristen, haven’t I?” 

Gwaine smirks. 

“Isn’t she the one with a crush on you?” 

“She’s the one with a crush on the _Dolma_. There’s a distinct difference.” 

“Oh, of course.” 

Merlin turns to him with a flat look. 

“If you’re just going to stand there, at least make yourself useful and get me some eggs.” 

“Hey, you were the one who just got on with it by yours-”

“ _Eggs_ , Gwaine.” 

Raisin ( _ha x2_ ) his hands placatingly, Gwaine backs away. He turns on his heel and makes his way through the dining room, then slides open the glass doors leading to the garden.

Humming to himself, he ambles over the lawn - it needs a trim, which basically translates to seducing Merlin through the window with his sweaty, shirtless body as he mows, “Call Me Maybe” style - breathing in the scent of dewey grass and basil floating over from the herb patch, and crouches in front of the hen coop at the end of it. 

Inside, knees up to his ears, Arthur Pendragon sits huddled in the corner, cooing at a plump Sussex hen. 

“You’re a good girl, aren’t you, beautiful? Yes, you are…” 

“Hate to interrupt, Princess, but d’you mind passing some of them over?” Gwaine asks, pointing towards a clutch of eggs sitting in the straw. 

Arthur, clearly startled, screeches. He then, predictably, puffs up like a cockerel to compensate for his dashed dignity, the effect of which is lost by the fact that he can’t lift his head more than an inch. 

“Get them yourself,” he snips childishly. 

Gwaine rolls his eyes, but crawls into the coop anyway, gathering the eggs and depositing them in his hoodie pocket. He sees Arthur watching him out of the corner of his eye, and flexes his bicep as he reaches for another egg. Arthur bites his lip, and Gwaine allows himself a small smirk. 

“You’ve shaved,” Arthur observes. He sounds disappointed under the haughty aloofness. Gwaine hums in acquiescence. 

“Blame magic.” 

“When have I not?” 

Gwaine laughs. He plucks up the last egg - his hoodie pocket is bulging, but he has no idea how many eggs Merlin had wanted and can’t be arsed to make a second trip, so he may as well take more than less - and sits back on his haunches, careful not to jostle his load. 

“Cheers, ladies,” he drawls, backing out with a jaunty salute, but at the last second he launches forward to plaster a sloppy kiss on Arthur’s cheek. “I’ll be sure to pickle some for you,” he promises, with all the chivalry of a knight vowing to save a princess from a tower. It’s an apt comparison. 

The former King glares at him, but his ears have gone as red as his crest, and Gwaine grins. 

“I’ll leave you lot alone, then,” he says with a wink, and he ducks out of the coop. 

By the time he gets back to the kitchen, Merlin is already spooning the gloopy, speckled batter into a tin. Gwaine stops short, eggs clutched in both hands. 

“‘The fuck did you need the eggs for, then?” 

Merlin looks up from the greaseproof paper that he’d been hacking to pieces. 

“That’s for the custard,” he replies. 

“Oh.” 

“Which you are going to make.” 

“...Isn’t custard supposed to be hard?” 

He doesn’t actually _know_ how to make custard, but he’s seen enough Food Network to know it isn’t exactly a piece of cake ( _ha x3)_. 

Merlin shrugs, tying a string around the wrapped tin and putting it... in a saucepan… on the stove… 

Gwaine, bemused, circles around the island and peers at the recipe book; closed, presumably so as to protect the pages from splats of batter. The front is tattered and worn, with grease marks and dubious red and brown stains (he’s suddenly wary just what kind of “recipes” it holds) surrounding the embossed title in what had probably been a green cover, say, a hundred years previous. It reads: _The Modern Housewife or Menagere_. Gwaine snorts. 

“Hey, wifey,” he calls over his shoulder. 

“Call me that again and I’ll take the cheese knife to your ponytail.” 

Gwaine grips said ponytail protectively, glaring mildly at Merlin’s back. 

“Alright, mate, no need for violence,” he mutters. “Yeesh.” 

“Ugh. Don’t call me ‘mate’ either.” 

Gwaine grins lecherously. 

“But that’s what we do, isn’t it?” 

Merlin turns around and glowers. 

“See if I ever _mate_ with you again, _mate_.” 

Gwaine waggles his brows. Merlin, rolling his eyes, turns back to the stove, when Gwaine remembers what he was going to ask.

“Hey Merls? What’re you actually making?” 

Merlin’s shoulders stiffen. He doesn’t answer for several seconds, and Gwaine is just about to poke him in the back when-

“Spotted dick.” 

Gwaine doubles over with a wheeze. 

* * *

  
  


Custard is, as Gwaine was correct in assuming, not an easy task. Not that (saucepan(milk + cream) + bowl(sugar + eggs)) ÷ whisk is a particularly difficult equation to suss out, but damn if it isn’t _fucking finickey_. Gwaine doesn’t claim to be a great multitasker, unless he can count stabbing a bandit on his right while kicking one on his left at the same time, which he doesn’t, because that was fifteen hundred years ago and, unfortunately, he’s gotten rusty, although the adrenaline rush of pouring boiling milk onto eggs with one hand while frantically whisking said eggs with the other is somehow extremely similar but also a helluva lot less fun. He is, he decides, not cut out for the whole killing-two-bandits-with-one-stoner shtick anymore. 

There are lumps in his custard when he’s done, so he sifts through the cupboard for a sieve ( _ha x 4_ ) and starts pouring, wiping the back of his hand against his damp forehead at the same time, because, hey, now that he’s conquered custard, maybe multitasking isn’t that hard. 

The resulting substance is… decent. In Gwaine’s humble opinion. He’s glowing when he sidles up to Merlin with the bowl cradled in his hands, and not just because of the sheen of sweat. 

Merlin looks up from his phone, Gaius-brow already on the rise. 

“Are you done?” he asks. Gwaine shoves the bowl of custard right under his nose by way of answering. Merlin peers down. As he does so, his other eyebrow slowly creeps up to mirror the other. “Huh,” he says. His breath causes condensation on the clear glass side. “Not too shabby.” 

Gwaine lowers the bowl and replaces it with his face. That meaning, he captures Merlin’s lips with his, nudging the other man backwards with his knee, and as Merlin sighs into his mouth, melting against him, he presses himself closer and-

A crunch. Something sticky and wet against his stomach. Gwaine pulls away, lifts the bowl and looks down. 

The extra eggs he’d left in his hoodie pocket are now oozing out of the sides. 

This time, Merlin’s the one turning purple from the force of his wheeze. 

* * *

When Gwaine returns from the bedroom (spotty red [apron](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/OJVmusgMwWKP1W-W6IW79r_LbN4cr_t4Il5z9oK3AWYJUhlDhyAPZMZvWZX4lKFaDSvWVg8=s151) and nothing else replacing his egged hoodie), it’s to find Arthur on one of the barstools, slumped on the kitchen island, with Merlin standing behind him and plucking feathers from his hair and clothes. It reminds Gwaine, in a way that should be bizarre but, at this point, fails to even make him blink, of a pair of birds preening each other. The way Arthur squawks when Merlin tugs at a strand of hair instead of a feather only serves to exacerbate this illusion. 

“Hey, it’s not my fucking fault your hair feels the same as chick fluff, fucking Pantene bastard,” Merlin grumbles, though Gwaine likes to think that by now he can decode the subtextual message: “ _your hair is so soft, I wanna stroke it for the rest of my immortal life”_. 

“I thought Gwaine was the Pantene bastard,” Arthur mumbles, muffled by the way his face is pressed into his folded arms. ( _“C’mon, Merlin, we both know Gwaine’s hair is way softer than mine”_ and no, Gwaine is _not_ biased, this is just _fact._ ) 

“No, Gwaine’s the L’Oréal bastard. He’s basically a male Cheryl Cole.” ( _“Yes, you’re totally right, Arthur, I would_ die _for a single hair on Gwaine’s head, and did I mention that he has an amazing singing voice?”_ ) 

“Then what are you?” 

Gwaine chooses this moment to make his presence known. 

“Johnson’s baby shampoo bastard.” ( _“Alas, good sirs, I cannot let my hair claim a title that does not befit it. No strand will ever come as close in softness to that of our very own Merlin, though it pains me so to admit.”_ )

He wedges himself between Merlin and Arthur, leaning backwards against Arthur’s slumped form, chest pressed against Merlin’s. Back to back, front to front. He grins. 

“How’s the dick doing?” 

He feels more than hears Arthur groan beneath him. Merlin glares, unimpressed. 

“ _Spotted_ dick. It’s _spotted_.”

“I don’t think cocks are meant to be spotted,” Arthur comments seriously, sounding like he’s moved his arms away from his face. “You should probably get that checked, Merlin.” 

“I don’t need anything checked,” Merlin sighs, exasperated, “Gwaine’s just being a di- immature.” 

Gwaine’s grin spreads wider. 

“You,” he gloats, “were about to say-”

“No-”

“- _Dick_ .” ( _ha x 0.5 for Merlin_ )

Merlin deadpans. “It’ll be done in five minutes. I’ve got a timer on.” He then backs away before Gwaine can lay a snog on him, telling them “I’m going to go shower,” over his shoulder. 

Gwaine watches the hallway entrance where his Other Third had disappeared, before whipping around to face his Other Other Third (both Arthur and Merlin think these titles are stupid, although Arthur’s only issue with them is that he’s the Other other than the first Other). 

Arthur has already spun on his stool, leaning back against the island, arms crossed over his chest in a way that makes his muscles flex _deliciously_ (these horngriness pangs are getting out of hand). Gwaine mirrors him, smirking slyly. 

“So,” he says, keeping his voice low in case Merlin’s Dumbo ears are for more than just show. He’s never been sure. “How’d you like to try the dick?”

Arthur narrows his eyes, peering at him as though trying to figure out the punchline. It’s practically his resting face. Gwaine adores it. 

“...You’re not asking me to blow you right now, are you?” 

Well. He wasn’t. But he’s not going to say no if the Princess is offering. 

He does, however, have priorities, aka Doing Something To Royally Piss Off His Magical Boyfriend ft. His Already Mildly Pissed-Off Royal Boyfriend. 

“Nah,” he says, maintaining eye contact with Arthur as he reaches behind himself and rummages around in the cutlery drawer. He whips out a couple of spoons. “ _We’re_ gonna have a try of the puddin’, Puddin’.”

“Don’t call me that,” Arthur grumbles, although the raspberry-ripple red spots on his cheeks that are so delectably adorable that Gwaine wants to eat him right up give him away. So he ups the ante.

“Whatever you say, _cupcake_.” He cheers internally at the full flush of red velvet vermillion that fills Arthur’s face. He holds out the utensils. “‘You the little spoon or the big spoon?” 

Arthur snatches the big spoon out of his hand with a glare (the liar) and orders Gwaine to “Unveil the pudding” with that haughty sniff of his that Gwaine finds so cute. Gwaine does, lifting the lid with the appropriate level of dramatic flair, peeling the layers from the spotted dick and inhaling deeply as the homey, sweet aroma floods the room. He turns back to Arthur, sweeping into a low bow. 

“Ladies first, Princess.” 

Arthur, glaring at him warily, slides off the stool and approaches the pot. He peers over the edge into the pudding. He looks to Gwaine in question. Gwaine nods encouragingly. Arthur, still eyeing him, dips his spoon into the side of the pudding, scooping up a dense, steaming, currant-speckled lump. He wrinkles his nose, but lifts it towards his slowly opening mouth anyway- 

He pauses, lowering the spoon slightly. 

“Merlin made this, didn’t he?” 

“He did, yes.”

“...It doesn’t have any rat in it, does it?” 

Gwaine’s brow does a Gaius. 

“Why, are you expecting it to?” 

Arthur scrutinises him for a moment, before seemingly coming to a decision, nodding, and popping the pud into his open gob. He chews. He chews slower. Gulps. 

“It requires a certain…” He gesticulates in his typical la-di-da sort of way, twirling his wrist twattishly. “... _Je ne sais quoi_.” 

“I don’t know what that means,” Gwaine says mildly, but he obligingly picks up the bowl of custard from the counter and holds it up for his King. Arthur shovels another lump of dick, then plunges it through the custard and pops it all in his mouth. His face clears and he nods. 

Gwaine, now that he’s seen Arthur try it and is sure it isn’t disgusting (he would make a joke about Arthur having terrible taste, but seeing as he’s dating _Gwaine and Merlin_ and, more importantly, _Gwaine_ , Gwaine can confidently say that taste is one thing Arthur actually does have going for him), he decides to try it for himself.

As he chews, the first thought that comes to mind is that Merlin had not been exaggerating about the stodge. The second is that there was definitely no good raisin ( _ha x 5_ ) for Merlin to have added the currants. 

But pudding is pudding, and he’s nothing if not sweet-toothed. He can already feel some of the hunger half of his horngriness decreasing. 

“Ahhh…” he groans. “That hits the spot.” ( _ha x 6_ ) 

Arthur goes for another spoonful, and Gwaine follows like the loyal little Knight he once was, happily masticating the spotted dick. 

“Hey, do either of you know where I can find the drain unblocke- are you _eating Kristen’s spotted dick?_ ” 

Both Arthur and Gwaine halt with their hands in the proverbial cookie jar i.e spoons in the spotted dick. 

“...No.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Merlin glowers at them both (he makes an unfairly sexy image, what with the still-steaming water droplets glistening on his naked, pearly chest, and _fuck_ , Gwaine really wants to lick him…) and marches over, snatching the spoons from their fists and examining the damage.

“You’ve gone and eaten a whole fucking third of it!” 

“Exactly,” Gwaine says reasonably. “ _Plenty_ left for Kristen.” 

“I’m not handing over some half-baked-” Gwaine snorts ( _ha x 1.5 for Merlin_ ) “-attempt at a present, you fucking _egg_.” 

“Ah, c’mon Merls, just slice it up and slather it in custard. What’s the big deal? Here-” Gwaine prises the spoon from Merlin’s white-knuckled grip, scoops up a hefty portion and dunks it in the custard. “Hey, Princess? ‘Mind passing the cream? I think that’s what this needs…” The dispenser is pressed into his hand - “Ta, sugarlump,” - and Gwaine pipes out a perky little spiral. If he had a cherry, he’d stick it on top. “Open wide, sweetheart~” 

Still looking pissed, Merlin keeps his lips stubbornly pursed against the ramming of the spotted dick against them, which only results in the entire lower half of his face getting covered in custardy cream. Gwaine, as a final resort, pulls out his puppy-dog eyes and pouts. Merlin’s own eyes roll heavily, but he opens his mouth. 

Two seconds later and Merlin has spat the whitish-yellow goop out into the sink (that sink is truly seeing some tragedies today) frantically splashing his mouth - inside and out - with the gushing stream from the tap. 

“You fucking _cheese weasel,_ ” he seethes, turning on Gwaine, “ _you put shaving cream on it!_ ”

Gwaine, in all his quick-thinking prowess, shovels another spoonful of pudding into his mouth and kisses Merlin to cut off his ireful tirade. Evasive, and not a very good long-term solution, but it works. That, and it’s not exactly unpleasant, if a bit wet. He pulls back with a smirk. 

“Bet I taste like dick, don’t I?” 

Merlin rolls his eyes. 

“You always taste of dick.” 

“You make me sound like a slut,” Gwaine says, then moans around a mouthful of spotted dick. He swallows it horngrily. Merlin slaps his hands away from the remaining pudding. 

“Fuck off out of my kitchen,” Merlin snaps, before his fingers snap too and the two dessert spoons stand to attention mid-air, looming threateningly. Gwaine stares, brow Gaiusing. 

“You’re threatening me with a spoon?” 

It’s only when Merlin’s eyes blaze gold and both spoons begin their assault on him and him alone, that Gwaine clocks the fact that Arthur had already made himself scarce the minute the spoons took flight. _Courage his ass_. 

* * *

Merlin, lips pursed, turns this way and that, examining the fall of his dress in his reflection. He hums to himself, pondering. With a click of his fingers, he turns to his chest of drawers, opens the smallest on the top row and pulls out a woven, brown belt. 

He secures it around his waist, adjusting to his satisfaction, and scrutinises the end ensemble. He sighs. 

“I suppose it’ll do.” 

Wincing at the dull ache in his arthritic knees, he hobbles through the door, grabbing his handbag from the hook on the way out. 

When he reaches the kitchen, Gwaine and Arthur are sitting together on the counter, Arthur’s head lolling on Gwaine’s shoulder. Gwaine, for his part, has one hand running through Arthur’s silky locks and the other buried in the plumage of the snow-white Silkie hen - fondly named Mithian - perched across their pressed-together legs. 

It’s a sight that causes his heart to melt to something gooier than Gwaine’s custard, and he’s mildly annoyed to find his annoyance at Gwaine is already abating. 

It’s to be expected, though; he’s never been able to keep up his irritation at the former Knight for long, despite “irritating” being one of his key - and proudly proclaimed - characteristics. 

Clearing his throat in a way that would make Professor Umbridge proud, he raises a brow and places a hand on his hip expectantly. 

“How do I look?” 

Gwaine glances over, dragging his eyes over Merlin’s body with a smirk, then winks. 

“Hot.” 

Merlin rolls his eyes. 

Arthur’s eyes blink open blearily, settling on his figure through a partial glaze. He hums quietly. 

“Colour suits you, Merlin,” he mumbles, before his eyes fall shut again and he nuzzles further into Gwaine’s shoulder. Gwaine’s arm tightens around him protectively in response.

Merlin sighs slightly, and shuffles forwards to press a tender kiss to Arthur’s forehead. 

“My turn!” Gwaine whisper-shouts, leaning forwards just as Merlin is pulling away, though not enough to jostle Arthur’s head, and pecks him on the lips. 

“Ugh, no,” Merlin complains, also keeping his voice low so as not to startle the former King. “Don’t kiss me, I’m all wrinkly.” 

Gwaine merely grins. 

“‘Still beautiful to me, babe.”

Merlin’s eyes roll again, but he feels the firm line of his lips twitching in exasperated amusement anyway. 

He grabs the paper plate from the island - wedges of the pudding artfully arranged in a spiral with a jug of custard in the centre - covers it with a doily, and makes his way to the door, leaving Gwaine crooning _I Wanna Grow Old With You_ by Westlife and gently rocking a dozing Arthur from side to side behind him. 

The evening is still as he crawls down the winding country lanes in his puttering Fiat 600. Twilight has brushed the sky in shades of orange, the rippled patchwork of English fields stretching endlessly either side of the twisting brambles bordering the road. 

Mildly bored, Merlin rummages around in the handbag sitting on the seat beside him with the pudding, plucking a boiled sweet from the bottom. He deftly unwraps it with one hand, popping it into his mouth and sighing contentedly around the taste of rhubarb, custard and sugar. 

Another car comes out of seemingly nowhere and, as he is wont to do on these journeys, he violently curses the lack of visibility on country lanes. The sharp swerve he takes to avoid the other car causes a photograph to fall from the dashboard, and while he waits for his fellow driver to squeeze past, he bends to pick it up, cursing again when his backache oh-so-kindly makes itself known. 

He examines the picture for damage, then gazes at the image itself, nostalgia blooming in his chest. 

It’s of a concert, the lit stage taking up most of the background, bordered by clear blue sky, paint-faced crowd members milling around before it. At the front on the right is himself and Gwaine, leaning on each other heavily, caught mid-laugh. Gwaine is in nothing but gold hotpants with a bright green belt, and Merlin himself is not covered up much more in his fishnet bodysuit and Hawaiian shirt. Beside Gwaine is Arthur, arm slung proudly around Gwaine’s waist. He’s wearing a t-shirt that reads “My boyfriends ~~is~~ are in the band” (the “s” on “boyfriends” and “are” had been added after purchasing). Arthur’s other arm is over Leon’s - beige turtleneck and floral bell bottoms - shoulder, while Leon’s arm is linked with George’s, who’s in a full-on tail-coat, top-hat suit. All of them except Arthur sport impressively curled handlebar moustaches, as was the trademark of their travelling band, The _Moustachekateers_. 

Merlin smiles as he remembers the day it was taken. Arthur had only Risen from the lake a few months previous, and the four immortals - who had performed for a thousand years before they'd retired - decided to make their temporary comeback (or, to anyone watching that day, their debut) in celebration. He brushes a thumb over the smudged signatures that Arthur had insisted they put, simply because “all your other fans get autographs, why should _I_ miss out on a potential fortune when I inevitably auction it off several decades down the line?”. 

Shaking his head fondly at the memory, he squishes the blu tack on the bottom of the dashboard to soften it, and sticks the picture back where it was. The other car has finally made its way past, and so Merlin edges back into the lane and resumes his drive. 

When he pulls up outside of the ivy-cloaked cottage, he’s relieved to find the light in the front room glowing softly behind the lacy curtains. 

He totters up the stone path, eyes watering a little at the familiar-but-still-overwhelming scent of basil, and knocks on the door. 

The curve-backed old lady that opens the door smiles cheekily from wrinkled lips. 

“Hello, love,” she rasps, winking in a way that reminds Merlin of Gwaine. 

“Hey, happy birthday,” Merlin says back, his own voice croaky with age. He holds out the plate. “I made you a little something. It’s not much, but-”

“Oh, you gorgeous thing, you shouldn’t have!” Kristen takes the plate enthusiastically, lifting the doily and sniffing, eyes fluttering shut in bliss. “Ah... I do love me a good spotted dick.” She lets the doily fall back over the pudding, then smiles at Merlin invitingly. “How about I put the kettle on? I’ve just been out back watching the birds.” 

Merlin agrees, because he could do with a spot of tea after the day he’s had, and soon after he finds himself in the loveseat in his knitting buddy’s back garden, cradling a cuppa between cold hands and complaining about the way the Waitrose cashier had eyed his tracking bottoms with disdain as if questioning his right to be in the shop at all. Kristen has a pair of binoculars pressed to her eyes with one hand as she sips her cinnamon, orange and no nutmeg brew (the only tea she had in stock) with the other. Occasionally, she’ll pipe up with a comment about a bird she’d spotted, or a tidbit of gossip about one of their knitting fellows. 

At one point, Kristen gasps, pointing out a bird the size of a fist hopping along the edge of the birdbath, gushing about their rarity and scrabbling in the pockets of her bright orange dressing gown for her bird spotting book. Merlin, curious, gets up for a closer look - ignoring Kirsten’s hissed urges for him to “sit down or you’ll scare it off” - and the next thing he knows, he’s swarmed by a whole flock of the apparently rare creatures, like a fifteen-hundred year old approximation of the Pigeon Lady from Home Alone 2. Thoughts of the movie drag him back to thoughts of Gwaine (specifically how he’d banned the former Knight from watching it for fear of the Hell he might come home to if Gwaine got _inspired_ ) and wonders what he and Arthur are up to back at their own cottage; if they’re both asleep, or if Gwaine is up to what he thinks he’s subtle in doing and is watching a movie that Merlin has banned him from watching, such as Home Alone 2. 

He decides, then, as the birds peck him clean of spotted dick crumbs, to excuse himself for the night, so he thanks Kristen for the tea and the company, hands her a bird that’d clung to his shoulder (much to her bemusement), and makes his way to the door. 

As he speeds home a lot faster than he should on narrow, country lanes in the dark, he tries to convince himself that it’s just because he wants to catch his boyfriend in the act of watching Kevin watching something he’s not supposed to, and he almost believes himself, ~~but his Tommy Gun don’t~~ but the sappiness of his smile gives him away. 

He catches sight of the photograph below his dash again as he pulls into the drive, the crunch of gravel beneath his wheels welcoming him home, and whispers the spell to let the age fall from his cheeks. He allows himself a moment to bask in the mellow contentment brought on by the thought of the people he loves, before he schools his expression into one of stern disapproval (he hopes Gaius is proud of him) and readies himself to thoroughly chew them out. 

* * *

_I know we’ll never grow old together_

_‘Cause you’ll never grow old to me_

_You’re the pink in my cheeks_

_And I’m scared ‘cause that means_

_I’m a little bit soft_

\- _Monster_ , Olivia Olson 

**Author's Note:**

> Please kudos and comment is you liked this!
> 
> (For every kudos you leave, 25% will go to Bé, who was the one who remembered Kristen's favourite aka only tea)


End file.
